


from the earth to the morgue

by dame_de_la_chance



Category: Code Lyoko
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Gore, Mysticism, Nonbinary Character, Other, Tragic Romance, aelita is a hot god and odd wants to maybe tap that, allusions to other characters, there’s only violence at the very end and it’s pretty tame to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame_de_la_chance/pseuds/dame_de_la_chance
Summary: She’s just a small god, made to protect Her tiny village. She does so even as the villagers begin to leave, as the small place She called home fades, as people forget about Her. Her power crumbles, Her domain deteriorates as everyone looses faith in Her. She’s dying, but She’s a god, and She finds Herself unperturbed by the idea of dying.Until someone comes along and begins to believe in Her again.
Relationships: Odd Della Robbia/Aelita Schaeffer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	from the earth to the morgue

**Author's Note:**

> odd is nb and uses they/them pronouns. hell yeah.

She is born from a single tear drop.

It splatters onto the velvet frills of a carnation. The woman has her head bent over her clasped hands, her eyes squeezed shut as her lips move. It is a thought, a single concept, that plants the seed of Her conception. 

It’s a gentle whisper, a seed of hope she plants in a garden she may never live to see. But She is born that day, when the woman begs to the skies above, to the gods that have existed before Her and will do so after Her, Hope dripping from her parted lips as she cries. There’s not a word for what she’s praying for, not until She comes into existence.

She’s praying for luck.

She begs for a miracle, for a lucky circumstance. She begs that her child will make it through the night, that somehow, she’ll see her child in the morning, alive.

There are a handful of people the woman has travelled with. They’re travelers, wandering, nomadic. They’re tired of traversing the hard plains and mountains and valleys of the land. They have come here to rest. During their travels, the woman’s child has fallen ill.

The night She is born, She performs Her smallest and first act of god good. 

She exists, suddenly, seemingly purposely. She does not know what it feels like to be born, only to blink into existence quite suddenly. She gazes upon the young mother, who does not see Her, and She finds Her purpose.

She is to help. She is to protect. Simple enough.

She offers a small miracle. 

As the woman stumbles back to her tent, to find the path she took towards the field of flowers, she happens upon a small patch of green. She recognizes the herbs, knows them to be the medicine that may quell the illness settles into her child’s skin.

She kisses the child’s forehead, clammy with sweat, with a sickness that has no proper name yet. She has just been born, just created, and She does Her best to do a job She was meant to do.

-

The child lives.

The travellers are enamoured with the small plot of land they stumbled upon. In between the valley of mountains, isolated from other now seemingly far away lands, it remained mostly untouched by human hands. There are rivers clear as the crystalline quartz, fish as abundant as the blades of grass. 

It’s a beautiful land, plastered in the petals of carnations. The humans are enamoured with the beauty and the safety the small land harbours. It is no El Dorado, no city of gold or diamond, but it is beautiful nonetheless.

The child’s miraculous recovery spurns the mother into convincing her peers to stay. There’s a handful of them, who listen to her words. “There is magic here. There is goodness here.”

There are miracles here. This land is blessed. She speaks to her peers, and the travellers listen, and they agree.

A tiny, tiny settlement is formed.

She watches them build their houses of brick and mud. She watches them dig into the ground and begin to plant the seeds of plants She had never seen before, foreign to the other organisms that blossomed under Her care. The village was small, just a handful of houses.

But it was Hers.

She was excited at the prospect. She adored the humans, adored the tender way they cared for their environment, adored the way they tried to keep everything the same. They did not wish to intrude, but She did not know how to tell them they were guests. They may have whatever they so desired of Her little abode.

The settlers settled into place. It is the woman who starts the rumour of a god, which passes down for generations until a true concept of Her begins to form, until She is gifted a name. It takes many tries, testing a couple of words. They start with the name for carnation, and move along.

A name settles across their lips. It remains permanent long after the mother’s great grandchildren have passed. Her story, however, lives on and on.

Aelita.

It is an adjusted name that used to mean luck.

She adores the word, the name, and tastes it on Her lips over and over. Finally, something tangible to Her identity. Something that solidifies Her existence not only to Her, but to the humans within Her domain.

Aelita.

-

The people know of Her existence, though they do not know what part they played in Her birth. They know that She exists, and they are desperate to see Her. They long for something tangible, for proof that She truly, truly exists.

She can not provide it.

There are very few Sighted people, those who can pierce the veil between reality and mysticism. Those who are Sighted can perceived gods as they are, can view their “physical” forms. There are very few in the world, let alone Her small, isolated village. She can not bless them into Sight, She can not make anyone Sighted. That’s not Her domain, just luck.

For hundreds of years, there is no proof of Her existence except for the luck She brings to them. Good luck, She tries to offer, with every godly act She does, with every breath that escapes Her lips.

The first Sighted only comes many centuries after Her conception, when the village has jumped in population from ten to less than one hundred. Weary travelers and the families of old make up the small, protected population of a village that has no name, and may never have a name.

Her name is Milly. She’s a gorgeous little girl, with pretty red hair and a pretty smile. She’s so tiny, so small, just a child with bright, Sighted eyes.

Aelita wonders if She had ever been small. Is an idea small? Is a prayer tiny? 

The little girl sits in the meadow of flowers her mother of old used to sit. The woman who cried a single tear, who breathed into existence a small concept that would change the villagers lives, hopefully for the better. She does not pick the carnations- they have become a sacred symbol of Her. Every spring, She keeps them growing, makes them bigger and brighter and more plentiful than the years past.

She watches out over the meadows. 

Aelita often finds Herself dancing about the village. It is as much as Her home as it is theirs, and She adores wandering the cuddly paved roads that are simply well vested through the arches of bare feet. Her presence hovers over everyone, but She remains unperceived. 

When Aelita arrives in Her little meadow, in the place of Her birth, She does not expect the little child to watch Her with wide, wide eyes. Milky leaps to her feet, a few petals latching to her legs as the flowers become disturbed by her movement.

“You’re real,” she breathes.

“So I am.”

Milky watches Her, and slowly begins to creep towards Her. She is awestruck by the sight of a god before Her, even if the god is but a minor deity of a small plot of land, a trivial speck in the larger plains of larger gods. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Milly finally states. “Is you’re name really Aelita?”

“It is.” It has become so, anyway. It’s a name She never picked but loves all the same. “Let me teach you something.”

They sit in the small field, and Aelita plucks a couple of bright carnations. Milky watches with wide eyes as Aelita begins to weave the stems together, like She had watched the basket weavers and the thread weavers do so many times, over and over. The act of creation never ceases to astound Her.

It is tightly packed, with so many carnations whose petals gleam in the soft light. It’s a bracelet, like the jewels golds She’s seen on the wrists of some of the more wealthier travelers that have managed to climb the mountains and find Her isolated domain. She slips it onto Molly’s wrist, and it fits like a leather glove.

“A little charm,” She explains, touching the petals. They grow a bit more vibrant through Her will. “You will always have good luck about you.”

“Thank you,” Milly whispers.

It is Her first Sighted child for many years, and she will remain the last for many more. Milky régales the tiny village with her visions of Aelita, or an elegant god with hair like a carnation, with eyes like the grass. She tells them all what Aelita looks like, and a connection had been established. 

The villagers believe in her. They’re desperate for a shred of proof that Aelita exists, and now they have an idea of what She looks like. They happily listen to the child, who soon becomes not a child, a young adult, and adult, and elder.

Aelita hovers through Milly’s life, making sure it is plentiful and that she finds herself always well. They become gentle friends, and Aelita is excited at the prospect of having someone to interact with. It’s wonderful, to not be so alone.

But as all humans and even gods, Milly fades from Her domain into the next. The carnations on her wrist finally wither with her.

-

There is a small statue of Her, now. 

It resides in the corner of the villagers, looking out over the meadow She was born in. It is gorgeous, hand crafted through a gentle care. The sculptor is now long dead, but She remembers planting a few visions in his head so he may know what She truly looks like.

It captures Her likeness rather well, and while it may be vain, it is probably Her favorite thing Her little villagers have given Her. It’s decorated in carved carnations, and She is in the standing position, praying. 

The villagers offer small sacrifices to the altar. It’s not much, whatever they can manage to offer. A few coins, some silk fabric, some ripe crops. Whatever they find excess, they give to Her. She keeps all the coins tossed Her way, all the small jewels and fabrics they offer.

She watches as they develop traditions, watches as a culture springs up. It’s so fascinating to watch as they develop intricate rituals, designed just for Her! It’s flattering, and She loves everything they do.

Every child wears a strand of beads with carnations delicately carved into them. They’re good luck charms, used to ward off any evil. They protect their children, with hopefully Aelita’s blessing, from sickness or violence or any other force of ill will that may harm their child.

Every strand of beads made, from wood or onyx or more, is of course blessed through Her. She kisses each strand before the parent offers their gift, hopeful that She may protect their child as they pray for Her to.

There are festivals to celebrate Her divinity. They are small but entirely all consuming of all the villagers. They usually only have one in spring, when they have enough crops to celebrate the blooming of the carnations. They celebrate and party and give Her as many offerings as they can give.

There are plenty of other, stronger gods for them to worship. And they know this, they are not naive enough to believe that She is the only magical being in this gigantic world, even if there are many who have never set foot past the boundaries of their small little plot of sacred land. 

There are plenty of travelers from other lands who provide them with tales of other gods. Like the god of death and Her wonderful servent god of the hunt, Yumu and Ulrich. Or the god of mischief and wit, Laura. Or the god of intelligence, the god of healing, or any other god. There’s plenty to chose from, and they decide to chose Her.

She is the living incarnation of luck, but it’s different to feel lucky on Her end. Lucky, to have such faithful lovers. Lucky, to be able to take part in every marriage that happens, every lovely birth of a child in Her domain, every scraped knee and every crop planted and every tragedy. She’s so lucky to have found these people, who gifted Her a name and a place beside them.

Oh, She loves them all so dearly even if they can not see Her.

-

When the village becomes a bit larger, when they are nearing a little over two hundred people, trouble begins to stir. There are black clouds that loom over the horizon, far away from their little village, yet a perpetual omen that can not be shaken from the backs of Her people’s minds.

A traveler arrives. He has dark hair and terrified eyes. She knows not what direction he came from, and She’s curious as to where he is headed.

“The end is coming,” he warns. He stands upon the very center of town, and people gather around him, curious. “There is a god we have angered, and he is coming to destroy all of mankind. You need to flee, you need to run, before His claws catch hold of your tiny village.”

It is not the first time they have heard of the end of times. Travelers have come and gone, regaling tales of angry gods or of science that explains they soon to be doomed. The people of Her little land have long ago lost interest in the paranoia of these types of travelers, but the clouds that loom do cause them to listen closer than usual.

“The Desolation is coming,” he states, his voice drenched in untold sorrow. He clasps his fingers together in a prayer, but he’s praying to the people before him. “You must leave. Whatever deity that resides here, that protects your little haven? They aren’t strong enough to defeat the black beast. You must run.”

The Desolation.

She’s heard that title before, from the mouths of men long dead, who’s bones are now dust. He is a god born from all the rot in the world. Every plague that sweeps through continents, every corrupt politician, every action born of ill intent- that was Him. A deity born from the smoke of burnt village raid, of dribbling blood from a sword wound, from the man who steals without a seconds hesitation.

She knows of Him through the mouths of humans, and through Her own knowledge of the gods around Her. He is large, massive, and entirely too powerful for Her to even think about fighting. He is nothing but hate and malice and destruction.

The Desolation, the humans call him. However, She knows Him by another name. Xana.

William is the name of the traveler. He does not stay long, only offers his words of warning. He leaves, his path headed right towards the fog of black that pervades the horizon.

The village is somber.

-

That year, the crops died.

She did Her best, used all the blessings She could, but scarcely a few plants managed to even bloom. There’s a famine within Her tiny village. Her people are starving.

The soul is tainted with something black. Xana’s talons have struck Her earth, and He leaves claw marks in His wake. The clouds are closer now, and She knows that She can not stop Him from pervading Her little sanctuary.

The first to leave stings, even though She knows it was simply a matter of time.

It’s a small family. They load up their wagons with their children and their possessions. They give hugs and gentle goodbyes, with the hopes of seeing their peers soon. It is a sad day, to watch the children She watched over for generations disappear into the horizon. A piece of Her leaves with them.

-

It is a gradual trickle. The people of Her villagers are reluctant to leave, but there quickly becomes nothing left to keep them there.

Her fertile souls become invested with parasites and are nutrient free. Her crystalline rivers have become polluted by a mudslide. The ever clear, sunny skies have given way to a perpetual raid which is flooding part of the town. The field of carnations, where She was born, has all but died.

Everything She has to offer is quickly becoming tainted by Xana. The people pray to Her, beg Her to save them, to offer mercy. She wishes She could answer, She wishes She could explain Herself, but She can't speak to them. They do not understand that She simply isn’t strong enough to save them all, that She is at best a good luck charm.

The people begin to lose faith in Her. She can not, in good conscience, blame them for doing so. It feels as if every god has abandoned them in favor of letting their small paradise become wasted by the hands of an apathetic power that be.

They trickle, trickle away. She does not know what it feels like to bleed, but this is what it feels like. She feels as if She is bleeding out, that the life blood of Her body is leaving Her, slowly, painfully.

Families begin to move. They fear they feel is prominent in their hearts, and the love they felt for Her becomes scorn. They’re angry at Her, for not protecting them. They’re angry that She is nothing more than good luck. She can not protect them, and they believe it is time to invest the faith in someone who can.

They leave Her baratin land, and they few who stay do not stay for long. The crops continue to die off until the point where they no longer even sprout. The rivers are beginning to overflow, and half of Her little town is sunken into the new lines of a riverbed. Her meadow is underwater, carnations drowned like the hope people used to feel.

Bodies begin to grow. Starvation takes its toll, and animals have long ago moved out of their reach. There is nothing left of Her little land. 

The last family moves.

There is a child at Her statue, the day they are to leave. He is small, fragile, weak. There is no food to give any weight to his bones. He is lackluster in hair and skin, appearing as if he awaited in death’s front porch. 

“I know you exist,” he whispers. His sisters beg of him to hurry. There’s a storm churning, thunder clapping as lightning strikes in the distance. The rain plasters his hair to his face. She stands beside him, and although he can not see Her, he must feel Her. “You did all that you could, didn’t you?”

“I tried so hard,” She whispered to the air. He can not hear Her voice. “Please, I tried so hard. I beg you to forgive me.”

He touches the face of Her statue. It’s become overrun with moss and the tes a spiderweb if cracks down Her back. The minute details the sculptor of old created have been eroded by the rains.

“I believe in you,” he whispers. “I’m sure you did your best. That’s enough.”

She sobs. She did not know She could, but as She watches the little boy leave Her altar, watches as he becomes one with the horizon, She succumbs to the terrible sorrow swelling in Her heart. The void within Her very feeling has stretched as far as it could. 

She is utterly alone.

-

There are no souls who wander about Her little village. No travelers stumble upon Her small abode, and it remains empty for centuries and centuries. 

Everything Her children worked so hard on quickly fell way to ruin. All of the lovely little houses have collapsed under the pressure of a thousand rains. All of their belongings have flooded away or molded over, becoming one with the soil once more. 

The paths they made with their feet have grown over through the hungry desperation of wild plants. Wisps of ivy and morning glories entangle themselves with the ruins of their homes, creating a thick web of leaves to blanket the ancient ruins. 

There has been no sun for hundreds of years. The black clouds loom ever closer, still too far off to signify that Xana Himself is present in Her home. Only His corruption is here, sickening Her land.

The statue has crumbled, and that is when She finally allowed Herself to crumble as well. Everything Her children worked so hard for us now dilapidated. Every wonderful thing they put so much passion into has been swept away in a flood or reclaimed by nature.

She will never watch bare feet dance across the well worn paths of old. There shall be no festivals in Her honor, no children lingering around Her altar to listen to a story, no marriages that ask for Her blessing. There will be no farmers thanking Her for a bountiful harvest, no more bouncing babies who’s forehead and beads She shall kiss as a promise, a promise to protect them.

All that remains are the broken strands of good luck beads, a crumbled statue, and a sparse few homes that peak above the mudslide that swallows many whole.

-

She isn’t afraid of death.

She’s watched over those who lived in Her village for so many years that She has lost track of. She has watched countless be born and countless die, mostly from old age. She has watched their soul fade from this life into the next. She isn’t afraid of dying.

Gods can die. Their is no such thing as immortality, at least not t he kind men who crave power and youth lust after. Immortality of the physical sort is impossible to attain, even for gods.

Once Her people stop believing in Her, She shall wither. Already, She feels Her power, Her life, quietly draining, like a flower drying in the harshness of the sun. Her people have already vanished, knowing well She could not protect them.

But even from afar, if there is still a speck of hope in their hearts, She shall live. She shall live until either they all stop believing in Her, or until the last breath passes through their lips and they equally no more.

Until then, She must live.

-

It is hell on earth to still be alive.

There is no day, just perpetual gloom. Every good thing this little plot of land had to offer has been forsaken and destroyed. There is nothing here, nothing anymore.

She simply rots away, awaiting the day Xana arrives. He seems to be quite content with taking His time, with first destroying every bit of life this little place has to offer before He comes for Her.

It is a terrible existence. She loathes it, to be this animal, trapped, awaiting the mercy kill of one more powerful than Her. She loathes this, but She can not change it.

She can not stop Xana. She can not leave. And there must still be someone who believes in Her, in Her power and divinity, since She is still standing despite how much time has passed since She’s last seen a human face.

She closes Her eyes, and hope that when She awakes, She shall find Xana at Her doorstep.

-

White chrysanthemums decorate the desolate fields.

They sprout like weeds, quietly consuming every inch of space. From as far as She can see, She can see a heavy blanket of white overtake the blackened soil that was once a friendly brown. 

Xana is to come, soon.

The clouds are nearly Her. She can feel His polluting qualities, can nearly feel His claws about to strike into the heart of the land.

She wants this to be over, so desperately.

As the field of carnations gives away to a field of chrysanthemums, Aelita finds Herself overwhelmed with despair.

-

The sun does not shine, but it does stop raining. She decides to take pleasure in even the smallest of things. She hasn’t much time- Xana is nearly here, and will surely kill Her soon. Hopefully.

She stands by the remains of Her statue, overlooking the field of death. Dana’s présence looms over like the sharpened blade of a guillotine. She prays to the stronger gods out there that it strikes swift and fast.

She listens for any sign of life. The birds have long ago made their migratory flight to never come back. There are no plants for insects to pollinate, for small game to eat. There is no small game for the larger animals to hunt. There is nothing left but the swallowed ruins of a tiny village.

A crackling catches Her attention.

In the distance, She sees a figure. She can make out no details of them, except that there is a person walking towards Her. A human. A person.

Oh, She must be going mad. She has watched humans sink into madness before, heard of gods letting insanity crumble them. She is mad for certain now, believing any sort of living matter would want to have anything to do with Her corrupted home.

The figure becomes less of a fleck in the distance. She does not move towards it, only watches them as they become clearer and clearer, 

Even from farther out, She can tell that they are small. Not a child, just a short adult. They’re dressed from head to toe in gaudy purple clothes. Their hair is gold, like the sun She misses so dearly. There’s something familiar about the eyes they wear, though it’s not the color that strikes a fire within Her.

Not a word is spoken between them as they saunter through the field of chrysanthemums, as their boots become soaked in the almost marsh like biome. They see Her, She’s certain, they must be Sighted. Their eyes are trained on Her, not the statue. They see Her, and not a word passes.

Finally, they come to a stop.

They are but a few feet away. Their eyes gleam despite that there’s no light. Their hair is tangled, they’re a bit bruised and have scratches, they have little freckles on their nose- there’s so many details to soak in about this little person. She wants to absorb everything She sees. She hasn’t seen another face in so, so long.

But most of all, they seem tired. Weary, like they’ve taken a very long journey. And they look at Her as if they have arrived home.

“Hello,” they finally greet. They give Her a small wave. They speak with a heavy tongue, and accent that is very foreign to Her, in a language that She never learned to speak anyway. Their words remind Her of honey, thick and sweet. 

“Hello.” It is a whisper. She is wary of speaking to something She is certain is an illusion, but gods, She has missed contact with another.

They light up. “I’m Odd!”

“You certainly are,” She states, glancing at their clothes. They laugh, and She wonders if maybe She doesn’t know the language as well as She thought.

“That’s my name,” they clarify. “Odd Della Robbia, at your service.”

As they laugh, as they share a name, as their eyes twinkle with delight, She recognizes their familiarity. The blood that flows within, She knows their line of ancestry. The little boy who cradled Her statue, the last family to leave Her cursed land, the last to give up hope. The little girl who She weaved a bracelet for, who was the first and only Sighted in Her little village. The weeping mother who brought Her to life.

Aelita nearly chokes on Her words. “It is wonderful to meet you.” _Again._

“I’ve traveled pretty far to meet you,” Odd begins. “Aelita?”

To hear Her name again, spoken from lips other than Hers? She nearly begins weeping. “That is me.”

They offer a small smile. “My grandparents told me lots of stories about you, from their grandparents. No one ever told me how utterly gorgeous you are. One could say you look rather… divine.”

She laughs at that. It’s been so long since She’s laughed. “You’re too generous. But why did you come here?”

“I told you. To find you.”

“You have found me. Now what?”

“Now? Now, I stay here.”

They open a little sack on their shoulders. They reach into it and pull out something. “This was your altar, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then here is my first offering.”

Beads. They’re purple in color, and very, very old. Carnations decorate each bead, which had been carefully strung on a sturdy and ancient string. It is a bracelet, a good luck charm.

Her eyes water as they place it at the base of the crumbled statue. “You can not stay here.”

“And why is that?”

“There’s nothing for you here.”

“There is you.”

“There is no fresh water.”

“No.”

“There are no animals.”

“That is true.”

“There are no sources of food or water, no other people for hundreds of miles. There is only terrible weather, and a malicious god heading right towards us.”

“That is all very, very true.”

“Then you see why you can’t stay?”

“No.”

She blinks. “What? Why?”

“Because I don’t need all that.” Boldly, they reach out for Her. They take Her hand in theirs, loosely, so She may pull away at any time. They stare into Her eyes, determination settled into their features. “I didn’t come here for the paradise that this place once was. I came here for you.”

She weeps at that. She weeps at their words, at the way they hold Her hand so, so gently. She weeps at the warmth they have given Her, and She pulls them into Her arms.

“You are my last believer,” She whispers. She can feel it in Her chest. The others have long since died out, have long since gave up hope in Her or have had children that don’t believe in the fairy tales they spun for them.

“Unfortunately.” Their breath is hot on Her neck. “I have tried to pass on your story, but few will listen.”

“That’s okay.”

She lets them go. They offer Her a tired smile. Still, they do not let go of Her hand. “I may be your last, but I’ll make sure to be your best.” They glance around, at the ruined village behind Her. “I’m staying Her until something manages to kill me. Now, I think I better try and make a house.”

-

Odd stays beside Her side for years to come. They regale Her of stories from faraway places, from lands She shall never visit and places they shall never see again. They tell Her stories, so many stories of people She’s never met, of the family She’ll never see.

They clean up one of the houses that hadn’t collapsed from the mudslide. They fix it up, after a lot of hard labour. They have a place to call home, that protects them from the torrential rain.

She blesses a small part of the ground, weeds out the chrysanthemums, and tries to make it fertile enough for them to grow food. It isn’t much, it truly isn’t, but it’s enough, Odd assures Her. It grows corn and tomatoes and beans and plenty of other foods. It’s a tiny plot of land, but it is enough for them to survive on, though they seem a bit thinner than when they first arrived.

For all the crops that manage to grow, Odd continues to offer little sacrifices. She refuses the gifts they leave at the altar, but they still offer. It is a tradition they were told of, and they wish to upkeep it for the sake of giving Her something. It is charity in its purest form.

They live together, quietly. Xana lurks just beyond, and She knows that He is soon to step foot into Her land. The days they spend together will end soon, She knows. Her wish to be finally killed will soon be brought to fruition.

She does not know how many years have passed, but it can’t be very many. Odd remains youthful, gorgeously so, and it reminds Her of travelers of old who search for fountains that will preserve their youth. They glow softly, even though there is no light, no sun to catch in their golden hairs. 

They sit beside each other, in the meadow over run by chrysanthemums. She has tried to weed them all out, but that is simply too big of a job for just the two of them. Instead, there is a small patch they managed to weed, and a handful of carnations have begun to sprout. They are nowhere near as large or vibrant as they once were, but they still exist. 

“The shadows are coming closer,” Odd observes. It is noon, and yet it is nearly pitch black outside. “It’s almost here, huh?”

“The Desolation has nearly arrived,” She whispers. Odd watches the sky, eyes trained on the clouds of black that are very, very close to hovering over Her little land. They haven’t much time, not at all.

They don’t speak other words. Odd places a hand over Hers, quiet. It’s a little strange to see them somber. She wonders if they truly understand the implications of the arrival of the Desolation. She breaks the silence.

“I can’t stop the Desolation.”

“I know.”

“I’m just a minor god, a small deity of luck.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t stop my villagers from leaving. I can’t stop Him from coming, and I can not protect you.”

They reach out. The cross the distance, physical, maybe more. The distance between a god and a human. Is there one? She can never tell.

They cradle Her hand in theirs. They hold Her knuckles tight, and they look into Her eyes, straight on, unflinching. “I know. And that’s okay. You’re enough as you are.”

She cries, silent tears of petals.

She collapses into their arms. “I can not protect you,” She repeats. Because She has been alive for millennia and centuries more, and that is Her only regret. She isn’t strong enough, isn’t powerful enough to stop this calamity. She could not protect anyone in Her land, She was nothing but a false god.

What is luck, what is hope, when there is nothing good left? 

She can not heal, She can not fight. She can not offer anything, She can not give. Her powers have dwindled terribly, but She scarcely had any to begin with.

Odd holds Her tight, their bodies pressed against each other. They rub Her back, and they whisper, “You don’t have to.”

She just cries harder than that. Gods should be regal and unbreakable and hold themselves higher than humans, but what are gods without humans? What are gods with no one who believes in them? What is a god who has no one that believes in them?

She sobs into their arms, and Odd doesn’t tell Her to stop. They don’t demand anything from Her, they don’t beg. They don’t treat Her as something more than them. They just hold Her tight.

She cries, long after night should have properly fallen.

-

“He is nearly here.”

“That is true.”

“I can not protect you.”

“That is fine.”

“You will die here.”

“That has always been my dream.”

“You’re young. You can leave, see the world. Won’t anyone miss you?”

“I shall miss you. If you are to die, I shall do so next to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, Princess.”

“If you ever change your mind…”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m your last. And, well, we should stick together.”

-

They sit in the meadow. The clouds are on the edge of Her territory. Another week, and they will touch down. Xana will be an infestation that will be the death of Her.

She plucks the flowers from the little patch. She knows the amount She grew, and why She grew them. She picks them all, the perfect amount. Odd watches Her as She weaves, as She repeats steps from thousands of years ago. She tries to remember the way the hands of the basket weavers moved, or the tread makers. 

The flowers aren’t as vibrant as they once were. They’re not as large, not as soft. They’re not as gorgeous as they were when She made one for Milly, so, so long ago. But She knows this will be enough.

Odd’s first sacrifice jingled a bit on Her wrist. They have continued to sacrifice as much as they could afford. It is time to return the favor.

She slips the weave of carnations on their wrist. They stare at it for sometime, and She lets Her fingers linger on their tanned skin. Odd glances up, eyes resting on the empty patch with chrysanthemum roots already growing, then back at Her.

“Why?” Their voice is delicate.

“You give me so much. It’s all I have.”

Odd quietly takes Aelita’s hands in theirs. Their breath trembles, ever so slightly. 

“I want to give you another sacrifice,” they whisper. “But I can not place it on your altar.”

“What do you wish to give me?”

“My heart.”

Odd leans closer. They’re barely inches apart. She can feel their soft breathes on Her lips. “How do you propose to give me that?”

Their lips ghost Hers. “Can I kiss you?”

She closes the distance. Between god and man? No, between lovers.

It is soft. It is chaste. It is tender.

She has never kissed before, only knows it as a ritual of flesh between two lovers. She knows it as a sign of love, when two pairs of lips meet. She had kissed babies and children’s heads for blessings, yet She has never kissed something so soft. She knows that their lips have tasted other mouths, that She is not their first. She has a feeling, however, that She is their Only.

They part, if only to breathe. Odd offers Her a small smile, not as cheeky but just as bright as all the other smiles. “What do you think?”

“I accept your offer,” She whispers back.

As the sky turns black, they kiss again.

-

The smog has poured onto Her land. She watches the clouds roll in, right over Her little land. He is here.

“Xana is here,” She whispers to the last believer.

Odd stares at the skies. The sky has darkened, an immediate effect from the pollution personified. The once crystalline blue has given way to a disgusting ash grey. 

“So He is.”

They hold hands.

Their love won’t change fate. It won’t stop the forces to be. It won’t change this story from ending the way it was meant to end.

Still, She is comforted.

-

They wait for Him.

They stand in the meadow together, chrysanthemum petals brushing at their ankles. It does not rain. The sky is pitch black, like night has fallen even though it should be in the early morning.

He does not disappoint.

Xana does not manifest before them. Instead, He seems to have chosen someone to represent Him. He has no form other than a substanceless mass of black fog. He has stolen the body of another human, a face to wear as He slaughters.

She recognizes Him. It is William, the traveler who first prophesied His coming. She knows that Xana’s corruption has turned Him into something new, that that is not the William She saw so long ago. Still, Her heart aches.

They stand across from each other. Xana smiles with the face He stole, grinning at the god and human before Him. Fog clouds roll in, encasing the field with a pollution so thick it nearly drowned out their surroundings.

“This is the end,” Xana simply states. She has often wondered how this would play out, how Xana would create their demise. “For you and your pet.”

“They are not my pet.”

“Humans are simply play things.” Xana shrugs. “They are unimportant to gods like us.”

“Others will stop you,” Odd states. They challenge the god of Desolation with nothing more than a few words and a confident tone. “Humans and gods. You will be stopped.”

“Perhaps.”

He edges closer. There is no point in fighting the inevitable, yet the urge to protect Her lover beats steadily within Her. They are doomed, they both know. There is not a fight they could win against the Desolation.

“But not by you.”

When the sword of Xana’s forsaken slips into Odd’s chest, when it slices into their ribcage like it is nothing but the fragile petal of a flower, as blood spills from their chest, Aelita knows. She feels a sword plunge into Her, despite never actually knowing what that should feel like.

They both quietly fall to the ground. She can see their empty eyes watching the sky, still open, but unblinking. They hit the corrupted dirt, their crimson spilling onto the black soil. She falls right beside them, feeling a hot agony She knows must be nothing compared to what they felt in their last breaths.

Still, despite their gruesome end, they die with a smile on their lips.

Her hand finds theirs.

She was never afraid to die, not really. It is just a fact of life, for mortals and gods alike. She was only a small god, only there to watch out for her tiny, tiny village. She had a job, and as Her last believer breathed their last breath, She understood that Her time was simply up. 

Xana laughs, mocking and heavy. The land She once protected is now His. She never wanted that, of course, but She finds Herself almost passive to the idea. It is no longer Her job to stop Him. There are others who shall strike Him down, who shall stop His corruption from spreading. Gods, humans, maybe more- they shall stop Him. 

Now, it is time to rest.

Now, it's time to have Her beloved lay in Her arms, and it is time to be carried off by the chariots of their Father.

She squeezes their palm. 

She fades.

-

-

They find each other. Their hands touch, flesh upon flesh. Their eyes meet.

“Now what?”

“Now, we live.”

“Together?”

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> :( 
> 
> yes the title is an mcr song.
> 
> anyway i’ve been writing for a different fandom where a human falls in love with a god and im just so enamoured with that concept
> 
> also yes i call aelita a god instead of a goddess. gods wouldn’t give a shit about gender conformation


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